


Somewhat Friendly Advice

by rhapsodie



Series: Stolen Sunshine [2]
Category: Pathfinder: Kingmaker (Video Game)
Genre: Aasimar Baroness, F/M, Idiots in Love, Mid-Season of Bloom, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sappy, Some brooding, Spoilers, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25385941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhapsodie/pseuds/rhapsodie
Summary: Tristian doesn't understand what he feels whenever the baroness is near. Unfortunately for him, his friends are all too eager to help.[AKA How Tristian ends up with a copy of "Nights in Katapesh"]
Relationships: The Baroness/Tristian (Pathfinder: Kingmaker)
Series: Stolen Sunshine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1835689
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	Somewhat Friendly Advice

**Author's Note:**

> Come on, we all wondered how Tristian ended up desperate enough to ask Linzi for romantic advice, right?
> 
> Same as last time, thanks to my dear friend DottoraQN for editing, as well as my other dear friend who doesn't have an AO3 account (you know who you are). Also, spoilers through the end of the Varnhold Vanishing chapter.

_This is miserable._ Tristian wasn’t proud of his lack of patience, but it felt good to admit to himself anyway.

He was in the Southern Narlmarches - at the height of summer, no less. The swamp was aggravating enough on a normal day, but the heat and humidity brought the whole experience to new heights.

But the baroness had asked him to join, and how could he ever refuse her?

So here they all were, the six of them, setting up camp in the driest spot they could find, which was still quite damp. Tristian kicked his feet together in a sad attempt to remove the mud caked into his boots, letting out a long sigh. The log he sat on wasn’t quite dry; he could feel the dampness seeping into his clothes already.

At least he wasn’t alone in his foul mood. Jubilost had finally quieted down just minutes ago after what felt like (and probably was) an hours-long tirade against every blade of grass in the accursed swamp. Now he sat primly on a stump nearby, writing furiously and huffing angrily to himself. Tristian knew his review of the Narlmarches would be less than favorable. 

Valerie, ever diligent, was marching around the perimeter of their campsite in search of wood dry enough to add to the campfire. The knight was amazingly stoic; she’d uttered not a word of complaint, though Tristian saw her face crinkle with disgust from time to time. _I’m sure Shelyn dislikes seeing her creation distorted like that_ , he couldn’t help thinking. _Then again, if Shelyn left that scar herself, she may have already disavowed her so-called chosen._

A fly buzzed around his head, pulling him from his musings. He lazily swatted it away, too tired to do anything else. The bug flew over to Harrim, who was sitting a few feet away, doing… Well, Triistian wasn’t sure, exactly. The cleric had been completely motionless for quite some time now.

 _Perhaps he’s meditating? Or praying?_ Tristian looked over at the other priest and shook his head. _No, he’s probably just brooding._ He tried not to think too hard on the similarities between himself and the notoriously grumpy dwarf at that exact moment.

Quick as a flash, Harrim sprung forward, clapping his hands together in an attempt to kill the fly that was now bothering him. The fly, unbothered, continued it’s meandering path through the swamp.

“Void take you,” Harrim growled with more force than the situation warranted.

“Harrim,” Tristian said carefully, “all living beings are worthy of mercy.” Yes, he might be exhausted, sticky, and covered in mud, but letting pass an opportunity to preach Sarenrae’s virtues was simply against his nature.

As expected, Harrim did not take kindly to his reprimand. “And what mercy better than being sent to the void?” he challenged, brow furrowing as it always did when he was about to launch into another sermon.  
  
“You know-”

“Oh, will you two shut it already?!” Linzi snapped from her perch atop the tent, which she was covering in twigs and leaves for camouflage. “I’ve heard enough proselytizing to be converted a hundred times over, and that’s just _today_!” The halfling let out a huff as she wiped the sweat from her brow.

“... Sorry, Linzi,” Tristian said sheepishly. Maybe his companions’ foul mood was caused by more than just their current location.  
  
“Apology accepted, Tristian!” Linzi chirped out, always quick to forgive. She looked expectantly in Harrim’s direction. The dwarf, for his part, just stared right back at her.  
  
“... Oooookaaaay, clearly I should have known better than to expect an apology from Mister Doom-and-Gloom.”  
  
The dwarf’s frown deepened, but he stayed silent.

“Well, I’ll take silence over another lecture,” she said, shrugging.

“Silence that you are now _ruining_ ,” Jubilost pointed out, looking up from his writing.

“Hey, like you’re one to talk! I timed you earlier, you know. You went on for _three hours_. I can’t put three hours of whining in my book!” 

_Oh, I guess he did go on for hours._

If looks could kill, Tristian imagined that Linzi would be crumbling into dust at that very moment.

“I was _not_ whining,” the gnome spat out. “I was lecturing you all on how unrefined these lands are. And your future readers would be honored to be able to read _my_ thoughts-”

“Jubilost.” And just like that, everyone went silent, eyes turning to their leader. Lyra’s voice was soft, calm, but Tristian had traveled with her long enough to pick out the signs of irritation: slightly narrowed eyes, shoulders raised high, knuckles white around the knife she was using to prepare their dinner.

Whenever she looked like this - or showed any signs of distress, really - all he wanted was to go to her, to soothe her worries until she smiled that gentle smile at him, that one that made him feel _something_ inside, all warmth and light.

 _"I like you, Tristian_ ," she had said to him, months ago. Her eyes had been so soft that day. This feeling he had around her… was that what she felt for him? 

It confused him. He was a _deva_ ; the ways of mortals were a complete mystery to him. Yes, he was mortal now, but being so had done little to imbue him with understanding. 

He blinked and he was back in the present, swathed in heat, mud, and sweat. The oppressive silence beat down upon the camp, everyone waiting for their fearless leader to speak. A frog croaked in the distance, the first sign of dusk’s descent.

Lyra said nothing, just sighed and turned back to her cooking. Slowly, everyone returned to what they had been doing before, though now Harrim was muttering a steady flow of words that Tristian could only assume was a prayer. The noise was aggravating, holy or not. _Patience,_ he reminded himself. _Remember Sarenrae’s teachings._

He should really help one of the others, set up wards around camp, take stock of their inventory, or any of the other menial tasks that were done each night they made camp, but he couldn’t take his eyes off of Lyra.

Across the campsite from him, she skinned the potato in a smooth, practiced motion. He was relieved to see that she had loosened her grip on the knife, but her shoulders were still tense and a small crease marred her brow. _Should I go to her?_ he wondered. _And if you do, you’ll do… what exactly?_ He didn’t know the answer to that question; didn’t know how to act, how to think, how to feel. Every time he was around her, everything else fell away into the background, her light a sharp point against the surrounding darkness. It took most of his energy just to keep his composure in her presence.

 _Is this what mortal love is about?_ He paused, tilting his head to the side as he continued to watch the sorceress. _Is that even what I’m feeling? Or is this just how mortals feel constantly?_

Forbidden, his earlier thought returned to his mind: _Is this how she feels about me?_

Perhaps it was just the heat, the mud sullying almost every inch of his clothes, but he felt completely and totally unworthy of any love just then, be it that of his goddess or from a mortal. He was broken, Sarenrae’s lost child, a deva without wings. A mortal without understanding.

 _A love that can be given and taken freely…_ the priest pondered. _How can it be so revered? How could anyone trust in it? How could I want it?_

Lyra had put the knife down. She grabbed something from her pocket - Tristian couldn’t tell what it was from the other side of the campfire - and reached for her hair.

Her hair was beautiful; it shone like polished copper with golden highlights, reflective in the way that only an aasimar’s hair could be. He could only imagine it was soft and silky, even after a long day’s march. Sometimes, when she was close, he had to stop himself from gently wiping her hair from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear, if only to prove his hypothesis.

In a practiced motion, she tied her hair up in a ponytail, albeit a slightly messy one. Tristian felt his mouth go dry; he had never seen her with her hair up before. _I don’t react like this when one of the others put their hair up._

And indeed he didn’t; he saw Linzi do her hair every morning on the road, and sometimes Octavia would let out a dramatic sigh and pull her hair back, declaring that she would chop it all off next time they returned home (a promise everyone knew to be empty). But neither of them made him feel like this: parched, almost starved, with a pit in his stomach and a strange heat buzzing under his skin. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably, but the feeling didn’t relent.

He watched, enraptured, as a single bead of sweat trailed from her hairline down the side of the long column of her neck, until it eventually - he was staring. He should stop. Tearing his gaze away from Lyra, he looked over to Linzi who was finishing up her stealth efforts. It wasn’t a bad job, the camouflage should at least deter someone from investigating their camp. His eyes roamed the camp, settling back on Lyra.

He sighed. _This is hopeless._ **_I’m_** _hopeless._ At his sigh, Lyra glanced up at him, curious. A delicate flush lit her face - _was that from the heat or something else?_ \- as she smiled at him, that shy, gentle smile he had yet to see her direct at anyone else.

It was as if his whole world brightened, the many irritations of the day melting away with that one look. Tristian shot his own small smile back, and watched attentively as the flush on her face deepened and she hastily returned to her cooking.

Jubilost, who had apparently moved to sit next to Tristian at some point, scoffed. “You two make me sick, you know,” he said. Tristian looked around, panicked, but the swamp fauna had fully awakened now, their song loud enough that the other side of the camp couldn’t hear them.

His companion, of course, had more to say. “Really, you should just go get it over with and spare us this incessant suffering. This is worse than the absolutely horrid romance novel written by the late-”

Tristian already felt embarrassed enough to combust right there on the log., His face was certainly warm enough that he could believe he was about to, but apparently Jubilost had been rambling loudly enough to grab Harrim’s attention. Of course the dour cleric found it fitting that he, too, offer his own insight, “Oh, what does it matter?” he grumbled. “We’re all destined for the void anyway.”

“Yes, well, I’d appreciate having a more pleasant time until then,” Jubilost huffed indignantly.

Tristian knew the response before Harrim uttered it. “Every moment is suffering until the peaceful release of the void.” They had all heard him say those very words dozens, if not hundreds, of times by now.

“I just don’t see why we can’t at least enjoy ourselves until then, dwarf!” Oh, good. It seemed the conversation was already drifting away from his personal life.

 _Just get it over with? Is that how mortal love is handled?_ Tristian thought to himself, ignoring the increasingly animated argument next to him. Despite his cluelessness, he somehow felt that that wasn’t the right approach. _What is ‘it’, anyway?_ He looked back at Lyra through the flames of the campfire, now roaring thanks to Valerie’s hunt for more firewood.

He now recognized what she was making: shepherd’s pie, his favorite dish. He felt that weird feeling again, akin to sunlight filling his belly. After what felt like eons, Lyra finished cooking and started handing out the food. She handed him his portion with that special smile, the one he was growing increasingly convinced was just for him.

* * *

They were finally, _finally_ , leaving the accursed swamp behind. It had been a rough few days - or was it weeks? Tristian was still adapting to measuring time in such small increments. At least they had been productive. They had rescued Jenna’s son with a miraculously small amount of bloodshed, thanks to Lyra’s quick thinking and some diplomatic maneuvers. Tristian might have been created by Sarenrae, the epitome of mercy, but even he marveled at Lyra’s skill at deescalating the most tense of situations.

And more than that, there had been the issue they had handled first: the fae couple and the thrice-cursed town. The fallen deva frowned in the morning sun. He still wasn’t sure he understood it, the madness mortal love seemed to bring. It had destroyed a village, and Tristian had read of it destroying entire nations. And yet…

Tiressia and Falchos, the fae couple, seemed so happy together, despite their differences and the tragedy that surrounded them. He imagined that that was why Lyra had been so quick to help them. When he had asked about the odd pair, Lyra had looked at him, eyes wide but burning with earnestness, and told him, “ _They share a bond between their hearts and souls. How can some minor differences come in the way of that?_ ” She had been.. Oddly impassioned about it, as if she needed Tristian to understand this. He tried his best, but he still wasn’t sure he actually did understand. _How could something so fleeting be such a great source of joy and sorrow?_

He looked at Lyra, walking a few feet ahead of him. It was a nice day; the sun was still rising, the air retaining the coolness of the last night. He could hear the wind rustling through the trees, the distant call of birdsong, and the soft drone of bugs, growing more distant as they approached the edge of the swamp. The sunlight filtered through the trees and hit her _perfectly_ , setting her hair and skin aglow. In a brief moment of selfishness, he wished that she would glow just for him.

He yearned to be closer to her (he always did), so he increased his pace until he fell in step beside her. She looked at him, eyes sparkling in the sun, and smiled. “Anything I can do for you, Tristian?”  
  
Oh. _Oh_. Yet again, he had acted without thinking. _Now what?_ He scrambled to think of something to say.

“Um, I wanted to thank you,” he finally settled on. 

“Thank me?” Her brow crinkled with confusion. “Thank me for what?”

“For how you handled… well, everything, these last few days. You’ve shown mercy and compassion to all we’ve crossed.”

“Oh.” Lyra seemed surprised. “Well, um… you’re welcome. I simply did what I thought was right,” she replied, still looking at him quizzically.

 _Of course you did._ Tristian thought, remembering a conversation they’d had during the height of the troll crisis. " _I follow my heart_ ," she had said then. " _It doesn’t make mistakes."_ Her heart was so pure…

He chuckled. “That’s what I mean. You have a good heart, Lyra. I’m… glad that I get to walk beside you.” It was the truth, but it felt inadequate, somehow. He felt… _How do I feel?_

Lyra was watching him carefully. There was a question in her golden eyes, one that Tristian felt was important. He wanted to hear it; he wanted to answer it. She moved imperceptibly closer to him, taking a deep breath. Tristian felt his heart thud loudly in his chest. “Tristian-” and then she was gone from his sight. The accompanying thud clued him in on what had happened.

“Lyra!” he gasped, kneeling beside the baroness in the dirt. He frantically checked her over for injuries. Her ankle was painfully twisted, foot caught in a root, but otherwise she seemed unharmed. He reached out, healing spelling already upon his lips, but she grabbed his wrist to stop him.  
  
“Save your energy,” she said. “We have a long march ahead of us still, and it isn’t that bad, I promise.” She smiled shakily at him, letting out a low hiss as she carefully untangled her foot. “See? I’m fine.”

It wasn’t very convincing.

By this point, the rest of the party had joined them. “What happened?” Valerie asked, always straight to the point. She had her sword and shield out, clearly ready for battle.

Tristian felt his cheeks warm with shame. If he hadn’t distracted Lyra, she would have seen the tree root; she wouldn’t have fallen. _It’s my fault she’s hurt._ The thought echoed through his mind, guilt stabbing him like a thousand small daggers. _I should take the blame for the delay._

“I, uh, fell,” Lyra said before he could speak up. “Just a moment of clumsiness.”

“That’s unlike you.” Valerie was glaring suspiciously at him now. Tristian shifted his weight anxiously, still crouched on the ground.

Linzi, for her part, was rapidly glancing between himself, Lyra, and Valerie. He could practically see the cogs of her mind working overtime. “Happens to everyone!” she eventually chipped in. “No harm no foul, right?” Lyra smiled gratefully at her. “Can you walk?”

The aasimar nodded. “Should be able to. I’m fine, I swear,” she said. “Just wounded my pride,” she muttered, so softly that Tristian could barely hear. She made to stand, but quickly crumpled back down, releasing a low hiss of pain.

“Please Lyra,” Tristian pleaded, “let me heal you.”

“I told you, I’m fine. A twisted ankle won’t be the death of me,” she insisted. “I just need a minute, that’s all.” She glared at her ankle.

Tristian felt a surge of _something_. Anger? Indignation? Protectiveness? It swelled through him. “No.”

Her head shot up to look at him, eyes still set in a glare. “No?”

“No,” he confirmed. “I’m healing you. I won’t let you punish yourself like this for a moment of clumsiness.”

Luckily, he had already started preparing the spell earlier. When she opened her mouth to reply, fire burning in her eyes, he gently grasped her ankle and finished casting the healing spell. Her mouth shut with a silent click. They stared at each other for a moment.

“Well,” Jubilost eventually cut in, snapping Tristian out of the moment he had found himself caught in, “if we’re quite done wasting time arguing over nothing, shall we be off? A minute walking is a minute closer to civilization, after all.” He didn’t bother waiting for a response, charging ahead with Harrim close behind.

Lyra cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she muttered, standing up and dusting herself off. He followed, standing as well, and tried to catch her gaze, but she was looking anywhere but at him. “Shall we?” she said to the ground, and walked down the path, Linzi flitting about her, chatting animatedly about something-or-other.

He watched her go for a moment, before setting off himself. He heard the steady thud of footsteps beside him. _Oh, right. Valerie._ Luckily the fighter wasn’t one for small talk, so he could be left with his whirling thoughts.

“So, the baroness,” Valerie began.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have time to think after all.

“What about her?” Tristian said tentatively, unsure where the conversation was headed.

“She might not be the ‘Chosen of Shelyn,’” Valerie spat the title out bitterly, “but she is quite beautiful, wouldn’t you say?”

Tristian looked back up at the pair ahead of them. Linzi was gesticulating wildly, clearly deep in some ridiculous tale and almost tripping over her own feet, causing the sorceress to laugh in reply. Her laughter cut brightly through the calm morning, clear as bells.

“Yes,” he replied plainly, “she is.” There was no sense denying it; their leader’s beauty was obvious to everyone.

“Beauty and power,” Valerie mused. “Someone like that must have many suitors, wouldn’t you say?” Tristian dared a glance at the fighter; she was watching him through narrowed eyes.  
  
“I would suppose so,” he said. _Why does admitting that make me feel sick?_

“Suitors are exhausting,” Valerie continued, barely paying his answer any mind. “They always want something from you, be it your time, your attention, your power, or your body, to name a few options.”  
  
Tristian remained silent. _Why is she telling me this?_

“I would hope, _Tristian_ ,” she emphasized his name quite pointedly, “that at least one of her suitors would leave her be, allow her to express her own wants and desires, as well as listen to her when she does. Too much attention can be,” the noble sighed, “quite grating.”

Luckily, that seemed to be all Valerie had to say, as she fell silent after that, leaving Tristian to his thoughts, which whirled in a cacophony best described as anything _but_ silent.

_She has suitors? Am I one of them?_

... _Do I want to be?_

* * *

The rest of the journey was uneventful, though Tristian kept his distance from the rest of the party, opting to stick to his brooding.

Lyra had been watching him the whole way, shooting worried glances whenever she thought he wouldn’t notice. He noticed anyway. He always noticed her.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He couldn’t _stop_ thinking about her. Every thought led to her. Every action led to her. Tristian felt like he was going mad, the confusing swirl of emotions building stronger within him by the day.

_He had to get away._

As soon as the group crossed the threshold to the capital, he started to split off from the others. A hand grabbed his arm, preventing him from moving. He turned his head and found himself looking right into golden eyes.  
  
She was close. So close, _too_ close. The buzzing in his head strengthened to a roar. Tristian tried his best to keep his expression calm, but he could feel the tremble in his polite smile. She smiled back, but it looked… guilty?

“Tristian,” she said, the slightest wobble to her voice. “I’m sorry about yesterday morning. I shouldn’t have been so stubborn about being healed, you were right. Can you forgive me?”

The deva frowned. _Forgive her?_ he thought. _Forgive her for what? I thought I had upset her by overstepping._

Lyra saw his frown and, despondent, released her grip. She looked down at the ground. “I… see. I’ll give you time.” She turned to leave.

“Wait, that’s not -” Tristian sighed. “I’m just confused. I thought you were upset with me.”

“No, no,” she rushed to reply, looking back at him. “I might have been irritated, for a moment, but it took about five minutes for me to realize what a stubborn fool I was, allowing my pride to get in the way like that.”

She stepped back to him, even closer than before. He could make out each individual eyelash framing her eyes, could almost feel her breath on his skin. The roar between his ears came back with full strength as he stared at her.

 _I want…_ _I don’t know what I want._ His heart was speeding up now, beating wildly in his chest. _I have to get away._

“Tristian?” Lyra asked him, her brow furrowing with concern.  
  
“I, uh-” His voice cracked. “Apology accepted, though unnecessary. Pardon me.” He turned and walked briskly away, hoping he didn’t look as pitiful as he felt.

* * *

His feet brought him to the tavern; an odd choice, considering he didn’t drink all that much. He hesitated at the door, considering. _Should I? Probably not. Drinking seems like a bad idea right now._ His hand wandered up to rest above his heart, which was still pounding furiously. _Right. I’ll just go somewhere else._ He made an about face, path set.

He made it less than a step before a voice stopped him.  
  
“Hey-hey, Tristian! What brings you here, huh?” Regongar was quickly approaching him from the main square.

“Good day, Regongar,” he said a bit awkwardly. Truth be told, the two spoke only rarely; their beliefs were simply too at odds with one another for much more than that.

The half-orc had finally caught up to him, and clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Hey, no need for that formality. Come on, you look even more tightly wound than usual, and that’s saying something! Let me buy you a drink.” Regongar grinned at him.

Tristian paused for a moment, considering, but finally acquiesced. “Very well,” he said, nodding.

“Yeah, that’s more like it!” Regongar exclaimed. “Maybe we’ll get that stick out of your ass sooner rather than later!”

 _Excuse me, do what?!_ Tristian thought, both confused and offended. He knew better than to argue, however. Arguing never ended well with Regongar.

The magus led him into the tavern, quickly guiding him to an empty table. 

“Alright,” he said, “what can I get for ya? Beer, wine, something stronger?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Ah, who am I kidding, you’re too much of a wuss for anything other than wine.”

Tristian felt even more offended now, but he _did_ prefer wine, so he didn’t bother to say anything. Regongar had already walked off to the bar, anyway.

The priest looked around, feeling very out of place. The atmosphere in the tavern was lively, even so early in the evening. Despite the crowd, the dim lighting gave the place a rather cozy feel, though the smell, a vile mix of alcohol and vomit, burned Tristian’s nose. A sudden shout made him jump, hand already reaching for his crossbow, but it was just a ragtag group in the corner, in the middle of what Tristian was fairly certain was an arm-wrestling tournament.

Over at the bar, Regongar was gesturing somewhat obscenely at the barkeep, Elina. She just laughed him off, ignoring the half-orc in favor of Ekundayo, who was nursing a beer at the other end of the bar. Tristian wondered just how much time the hunter spent here, drinking away his grief. _Sarenrae, please give him the strength to forgive himself, and to heal from his hurt,_ he prayed quickly. He hoped his goddess would heed that prayer, at least, even if she never answered his other pleas.

He looked up just in time to see Regongar returning to the table, a goblet of wine in one hand and a large tankard in the other. He slammed both down onto the table, beer sloshing out of the tankard, and shoved the goblet towards Tristian. “Here you go, buddy. Take a load off!”

“Thank you,” Tristian said quietly, and took a sip. It was shockingly good; he wouldn’t have guessed Regongar to have such good taste in wine. A few sips in and he already felt more relaxed, the thousand thoughts in his head quieting to a distant rumble.

Regongar took a long gulp from his tankard - Tristian guessed he must have downed half the contents in one go - and slammed it back onto the table. “Ah,” he exhaled contentedly, “that really hits the spot!”

Tristian, not knowing how to reply, took another sip of his wine, smiling politely all the while.

“So, my friend, what’s troubling you, huh? You can tell ol’ Reg, I can keep a secret.”

Tristian blinked. There was so much wrong with that statement. For one, he was fairly certain they weren’t friends, and Regongar wasn’t that old. Additionally, he was known for being unable to keep his mouth shut at all times.

“Not saying, huh?” The orc smirked knowingly at him. “That’s okay, I can guess. Lady troubles, right?”  
  
Tristian choked on his wine, feeling heat rise to his face.

Regongar watched him struggle, that infuriatingly smug look planted solidly on his face. “Ah, I thought so. Well, luckily for you, I know a thing or two about women.”

 _I sincerely doubt that, based on how often you and Octavia argue_ , Tristian replied in his mind. Nonetheless, he was both curious and desperate, so he raised an eyebrow and motioned for the man to continue, not that he needed the encouragement.

“See, Tristian, you’re too soft and proper! Ladies like a bit of _thrill_ and _excitement_ , you catch my drift?” Regongar winked at him. “You have to treat them a little bit rough sometimes!”

“Treat them… rough?” Tristian frowned, confused. That didn’t sound right at all.

The half-orc laughed, the dim light reflecting off of his fangs. “Yeah, get a little rough! Grab her a bit forcefully, you know? Give her a thrill!”

 _I think I’m missing something here…_ He kept frowning, unsure how to ask for clarification.

That was, of course, when Amiri decided to join them. Tristian hadn’t even noticed that she was in the tavern, let alone within earshot. “You know, that’s not bad advice, but it only works after you get a girl in bed.”

 _Get in bed…_ Tristian’s eyes widened, his face flushing darker as he finally caught onto Regongar’s meaning. _Me… and Lyra…?_ The roar was back full-force, now.

Amiri had continued on, either ignorant of Tristian’s plight or just not caring. “See, what you gotta do is show off your strength first! Go hunt a mammoth for her. Actually, make it two. And no cheating by using magic! You gotta kill those suckers with your bare hands!”

Regongar let out a holler. “As if you could do that yourself, Amiri!”

The barbarian slammed her fist on the table, shoving her face right in front of the magus’s, a fierce glare on her face. “Oh yeah? If you want, I’ll show you how it’s done!” she yelled. Tristian sunk further into his chair, sparing a glance at the exit.

“I’d like to see you try!” Regongar growled back, a grin on his face and fire in his eyes.

“Alright, when are we going? I’ll take you right now!”

Tristian saw his chance; he slipped away from the table and hurried for the exit, leaving the loud pair behind.

* * *

Tristian had been avoiding Lyra for days now.

It was difficult, being the baroness’s councilor and friend, but necessary. Any time he saw her, Regongar’s voice echoed in his head. “ _Get a little rough! Grab her a bit forcefully!_ ” On top of every other unnamed emotion he felt when he saw her, now he could add an odd desire to do just that to the mix. He felt ashamed at the urge, heat rising to his face whenever the thought crossed his mind.

It hurt, though, running away. Every time he left, she watched him go with large, watery eyes, sadness setting her mouth in a hard line.

The madness was growing worse by the day, and Tristian really didn’t know what to do anymore. At this rate, the emotions would eat him whole within a week. He was lost, confused, and it plagued his every thought. Even his dreams seemed to center around copper hair and golden eyes, shining bright like the sun.

He stood now at the cliffside by the castle, looking at the rolling farms below, their fields bright gold in the setting sun. His heart was still beating wildly in his chest; he had just seen Lyra moments ago in the throne room, while deep in discussion with Jhod about the Bloom. He had quickly excused himself from the conversation and left, as he had so many times recently.

He felt himself jump when a hand solidly clasped his shoulder, turning his head to meet Octavia’s angry blue eyes.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?!” she accused, releasing her grip to jab a finger at his chest.  
  
“Looking at the view…?” he offered weakly.

“Not that, you _fool_! I’m talking about Lyra!”

His heartbeat sped up again, but he did his best to school his expression into calm neutrality. “What about Lyra?” he asked.

“Like you don’t know!” Octavia cried. “You’ve been avoiding her for days now, and it’s driving her mad!”

 _She’s not the only one_ , Tristian thought bitterly.

“Listen,” the brunette continued, unfazed by his lack of response, “I don’t know what happened, if what Regongar said got to you or what-”

“You heard about what Regongar said?” Tristian gasped.

“Of course I did, we tell each other everything.” Octavia flipped an errant curl over her shoulder. “But that’s not the point. The point is, you’re _hurting_ her, Tristian. She almost broke into tears just minutes ago.”

 _I made her cry?_ He felt a sharp pain in his chest that echoed throughout his entire body. _How could I do that? That’s the last thing I wanted._

“I…” He swallowed thickly. “How do I fix it, Octavia?”  
  
She looked at him with pity. “Just be honest, Tristian. Show her how you feel.”

“How I feel…” he muttered, frown deepening. “I don’t know what that is, Octavia.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” She pressed. 

He almost shut her out, told her to leave him be, but this was _Octavia_ , one of Lyra’s closest friends, and a trusted member of their little troupe. Maybe she could help.

“It’s just…” he started, then shook his head. “When she’s near, I feel… everything and nothing. I don’t know how to describe it. I’m nervous? Yet comfortable. Happy, yet unfulfilled. There doesn’t seem to be a word to match it, and I just…” he closed his eyes, releasing a shaky breath. “I don’t understand any of it.”

“I see,” Octavia replied. He waited, but she didn’t bother elaborating.  
  
“What is it, Octavia? What am I feeling?” He clutched desperately at his chest, trying to stymie the hole he felt there.

The wizard let out a long sigh. “That’s for you to figure out, Tristian. No one can tell you how to feel, though life certainly would be easier if they could.”

Silence prevailed for a moment, the sun’s last rays dipping below the horizon.

“I apologize. I’ve been too harsh on you.” She reached for his shoulder again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know it’s hard, but avoiding her is just going to make it worse, trust me. Embrace your feelings and be yourself, Tristian. It’s the best any of us can do.”

She stepped away, turning back to the castle, then stopped.

“You know,” she said, a bit of mischief coloring her tone, “Shelyn is the goddess of emotion. Perhaps one of her followers could guide you better?”

With that final piece of advice, she left him alone in the cooling summer night.

* * *

Tristian’s hand hovered over the door, hesitating.

 _I can’t believe I’m doing this_ , he lamented, glaring at the wood. But Octavia was right: someone who followed Shelyn would best know how to sort out his feelings. And who better than a bard, someone who dedicated their lives to art?

 _Linzi is never going to let me live this down. Oh well. No sense in delaying the inevitable, I suppose._ With that final thought, and a quick prayer to Sarenrae for strength, he knocked on the door.

“Come in!” the halfling called.

 _Here goes nothing._ He pushed the door open.

Linzi’s room was… exactly what he expected, truly. Calling it a mess was to put it kindly. Her bed was unmade, covers in an odd pile in the middle of the mattress. Books and sheets of paper littered the room, covering every surface - including the floor. Tristian could make out more than a few ink splotches on the furniture, even. 

Still, everything about it was so indescribably _Linzi_ that he couldn’t help but smile.

The halfling was perched over her desk, ink covering her hands as she wrote furiously onto a rather crumpled sheet of paper. She looked up when he entered, eyebrows shooting up in surprise before she fixed him with a blinding smile.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite priest of Sarenrae!” she exclaimed. “To what do I owe the honor, your holiness?”

He ignored the fake title. Linzi was always pushing buttons, trying to figure out what made people tick. It made for better writing, or so she claimed. “Do you know many priests of Sarenrae?” he asked instead.

“Well… no,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t mean I like you any less!”

“Oh,” he replied, not knowing exactly what to say to that. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“So…” Linzi spoke up again. “Seriously, what brings you to my little corner?”

_No backing out now._

“I, um, was wondering if you could help me.” He took a deep breath. “With… understanding something.”

Linzi picked up on his discomfort right away, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Oh? And what’s that?” She tilted her head with fake innocence.

“I wanted to know more about…” He hesitated. _I can do this._ Another deep breath. “About love.”

“But Tristian, your love for Sarenrae is the greatest I’ve ever seen!” Linzi exclaimed. “How could you possibly be confused?”  
  
“N-not the love for my goddess,” Tristian stuttered out. “I meant mortal love.”

“Mortal love?” Linzi asked with a sing-song voice. “Whatever do you mean?”

He sputtered for a moment. _How am I supposed to explain something I don’t understand?_

Luckily, Linzi had mercy on him. “Oh, or do you mean romance?”

“Yes!” he gasped out. “Romance! I’ve heard that used to describe mortal love before!”

“Well then, fair Tristian, fear not, for you have come to the right bard,” Linzi proclaimed, throwing him a wink as she rose from her chair. “I have just the thing for you.”

“Y-you do?!” Tristian felt his shoulders sag with relief.

“I sure do! Just give me ooooone second…” she had walked over to her bookshelf, where she now rifled through the many, many tomes filling the shelves. “I thought I saw it over here… aha!”

She approached him, practically skipping with joy, and presented him with a large book. “Here you go!”

He took the book from her hands with reverence. It was a heavy book, bound in deep burgundy leather. Flowers and a crescent moon were embossed on the cover, along with the title: “Nights in Katapesh,” he read aloud.

“That’s the one,” Linzi affirmed, nodding energetically.

“And this will help me put a name to my feelings?” he asked tentatively, suddenly nervous about the whole ordeal.

“It sure will,” Linzi replied. “Trust me.”

He _did_ trust Linzi. She was mischievous, certainly, but she had a good heart, and never let her friends down.  
  
He gently ran his hand over the title, smiling at her. “Thank you, Linzi. I’ll be sure to take great care of this and return it as soon as I’m able. I owe you a great debt.”

Linzi waved him off. “Don’t worry about it! It’s my pleasure, really. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I have some inspiration for the next part of my book.”

“Of course.” Tristian nodded. “Thanks again.”

“Enjoy!” Linzi called out cheerfully as he shut the door behind him.

He looked back down at the book in his hands, suddenly apprehensive. He didn’t feel ready to read it quite yet, scared of what he might learn.

 _Next time we’re on the road,_ he decided, _I’ll read it while we’re at camp._

Cradling the book close to his chest, he hurried back to his own room. The opportunity to read it would come up soon, he was certain; Lyra never left him behind when her duties pulled her out of the capital, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> rhapsodie's my name, dumb idiots pining is my game. Please let me know what you think!
> 
> Man, I still can't believe Linzi gives Tristian a trashy romance novel. That's just cruel, man.
> 
> ... I might add a bonus epilogue.


End file.
